


And The Angel Said, Be Not Afraid

by mezirene



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mac's a priest, Threats of Violence, and also violence and religiously symbolic crimes against humanity, brutal character assassination of dennis reynolds, catholic-typical guilt and repression, charlie as usual is the only normal and redeemable character, charlie saves the day (eventually), conversion therapy, dennis is also a priest, i'm jewish and i don't really understand how catholics work, mac: potentially ooc because he can't say 'fuck' and 'bro' if he's a priest, this is seventy percent mac introspecting sorry, we're all g-d's children and he left us in a hot car, who loves Manipulating and Being an Asshole, with a lot of internalised homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezirene/pseuds/mezirene
Summary: Father MacDonald wants to be free from sin, but absolution comes at a dangerous price. Charlie is just trying to do his job. Dennis is a bastard man.
Relationships: Charlie Kelly/Mac McDonald, Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	And The Angel Said, Be Not Afraid

_This man was made a priest with an oath, by the One who said to him: “The Lord has sworn and he will not repent. You are a priest forever.” Hebrews 7:21_

The day he had been ordained had been the happiest day of Father McDonald’s life. The day had been overcast, but he hadn’t minded. He didn’t need a sunny, cloudless day to let him know that God’s plan was falling into place. That knowledge resided in him, the knowledge he was fulfilling a pre-established destiny. He felt it every time he stepped over the threshold of a church, but particularly this one, on this day. Anxiously, he smoothed back his hair for what felt like the hundredth time and internally chided himself. _“People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart. 1 Samuel 16:7”_. And there was nothing that could be more important that day; his heart, his soul, holding God’s plan close to him as he ascended the grandiose steps of the church. He had almost made it the whole day before the guilt came crashing down around him, leaving him weeping and hopeless on the floor of his apartment. Because if God could see his heart, God could see everything; the sin he lived in every day, a film of guilt on his skin he couldn’t wash off, no matter how many times he tried.

* * *

Mac shook off the train of thought as he parked his car and stepped into a similarly cloudy day. It was almost like clockwork. Every morning, on his drive to the church, his mind always seemed to drift back there. It was more than a memory at this point. He saw and felt it all so clearly - like every morning, he stepped from the day he was ordained into the present. It would be reassuring if it didn’t fill him with such an odd anxiety. Since that day, his faith had slowly been dwindling - not that he’d admit that to himself, so the presence of the panic he wasn’t willing to name clouded his head daily, hung heavy around his shoulders, heavier than any cross. His hope was not as unshakeable as it once was, and today seemed to be no exception to the testing of his faith.

Mac had awoken to the news that the statue of the Virgin Mother outside the church had been vandalised. His first response, much to his own dismay, had been a hot, flaring anger - which briefly passed, but it was there, and the damage was done. “I promise you that if you are angry with someone, you will have to stand trial. Matthew 5:22” By the time he arrived, the rage had subsided into a defeated concern. Another problem the diocese faced, on top of the already seemingly insurmountable pile. Then again, through God, all things are possible.

By the time he was close enough to make the statue out, there was a small group by it - including a regional news crew. Slow news day, Mac supposed. He sighed, partly in anticipation of having to communicate reassurance when he still wasn’t quite sure what was going on. But largely, the sigh he let out was because of the graffiti. It was vulgar. Red - and it was spray paint, he could tell by the spattering drips on the statue’s arms and chest. The way that drip followed down the dainty marble of her hands, like they were soaked with blood, made Mac’s head spin. From another life, the scent of aerosol hit him. Not from the statue - it was dry by now - but it was as if a wind had blown through him, carrying on it reminders from an age gone by. Of hiding out in deserted parking lots and huffing paint fumes, of looking up at his best friend with a dry mouth and a heavy head-

‘Father MacDonald!’ Mac realised he’d been standing and staring at the statue for a minute or so. He hoped he looked solemn, or contemplative, or anything. Folding his hands in front of him, he looked up. It was the presenter from the news crew.

‘What do you have to say about this act of vandalism? Does the church have an official response?’ Mac tried to look at the reporter, but his eye kept getting caught by the statue again. The Blessed Mother was looking at him. There were words sprayed onto her, vile, vulgar, accusatory. And her eyes - still loving, still merciful. But she knew. She knew that the reason she’d been targeted - the reason the Lord had left this horrific parcel at Mac’s doorstep - was because he was a liar. A sinner, and a liar. ‘Father MacDonald,’ the reporter asked again, impatiently.

‘I’m sorry, what was the question?’ Mac didn’t necessarily see the reporter roll her eyes, but he perceived it from every fibre of her being.

‘Does the church have an official response to this act of vandalism?’

‘Well- obviously, this is incredibly recent, so we’ll be working with law enforcement to ensure that this vandal-‘ and Mac tried, he really did, to not spit the word out as virulently as possible. It half-worked, but his eyes turned away from the reporter and to the camera. ‘To justice. As we all know, Good Friday is approaching and the thought that someone would desecrate a holy image so close to that time is unforgivable.’ He caught himself, and backtracked. ‘It’s, I mean. Obviously if the vandal were to come to confession- I-‘

‘Don’t worry.’ The reporter cut him off flatly. ‘We can’t use any of that, we’ve found that it tests badly with our audience when interviewees do a spontaneous piece to camera. They find it… off-putting.’ She let the statement linger in the air a little too long. ‘Do you mind shooting this again?’ Mac nodded and ran a hand over his face. Today was already too long. The reporter took a beat, then asked him again. ‘Does the church have an official response to this act of vandalism?’ She thrust the microphone in his face. He tried not to look at it.

‘We’ll be working closely with local law enforcement to ensure that the culprit-‘ and his jaw only tightened a little this time - ‘is brought to justice. I want to ensure our community knows we are here for them during this difficult time, and Easter services will continue as normal.’ As he was speaking, a man caught Mac’s eye. He was across the road from the front of the church, his hands stuck in his pockets, eyeing the proceedings with a confused - not interest, exactly, but… curiosity, Mac supposed. And the more Mac stared, the more familiar he seemed. ‘Uh, if anyone has any information we’d ask you to call the police in the first instance.’

‘Right, thank you. We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else we need.’

‘Great. Thanks.’ Mac said, already disengaged from the conversation. He smiled vaguely in their direction, turning back to get a closer look at the man who he was _sure_ -

Oh. In the time it had taken Mac to thank the news crew and turn back to the guy, he’d disappeared. Mac frowned. Maybe this was for the best. It was wishful thinking on his part, to just assume that any scruffy white guy standing thirty feet away from him was Charlie Kelly. The guy had been on his mind a lot that day, that was all. And he was busy enough without his time-wasting trips down memory lane. Mac shook his head almost violently to clear it of Charlie’s image, smoothed his shirt, and turned to head inside.

* * *

The day passed strangely. It was fits and starts - periods of time where Mac just sat, aware that he was meant to be doing something, and yet unable to.

Leading morning Mass helped - it always did. The congregation was small but dedicated, especially the elderly, but seeing their faces always felt to Mac like a twist of the knife (this morning more than most). If they knew who - what - he really was, they would be horrified, he was sure. Every upturned face was an affront today. He studied the face of every congregant, to figure out how they would wear disgust. Because he was sure they would, sooner or later. His hands shook slightly as he gave the Eucharist, but if anyone noticed, they said nothing.

A cop came to ask questions about halfway through the afternoon. He was young - a little younger than Mac, a junior detective with five-day stubble and a takeout cup of coffee that he downed and threw in the trash before jogging up the steps of the church. Mac was standing at the top of the steps waiting for him, and the cop seemed almost taken aback by his sudden presence. ‘Hi, Father MacDonald, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Detective Anderson from Philadelphia PD, I’m here about the incident with vandalism- the statue out front?’ Mac sighed sadly.

‘Yes, it came as a shock to many of us. Please.’ Mac gestured for the man to step inside the church before him. It was empty at this time, so the cop took a seat in one of the farther back pews. He seemed slightly at a loss, and craned his neck round to Mac as he sat for some kind of guidance that he wasn’t violating any unspoken religious code.

‘Am I okay to sit here?’

Mac nodded with a small smile. ‘When was the last time you were in a church, Detective?’

The cop frowned for a moment and tilted his head. ‘Christmas, probably, when I was young. Different part of Philly, though.’ The detective looked up and around at the church, giving a cursory glance around it. What he was looking for, Mac couldn’t be sure. He seemed uneasy. Mac took a seat on the pew opposite the aisle from him, keeping a safe few feet of distance between them. When the detective had walked past him and into the church, Mac could smell his cologne. The sensory input was small but significant, enough to temporarily pin Mac to the spot. It was woody, smoky, it smelled like man - and Mac’s blood ran burning hot then cold at the knowledge he was tilting on the edge of sin once again. He had to keep his distance.

The detective asked his questions, but Mac sensed that the guy found almost none of what he had to say helpful. Who would want to vandalise the church? Mac almost laughed at the question. Who wouldn’t? Outside of the churchgoing community, it was no secret that many of the residents of this particular area of Philadelphia felt a certain animosity towards it. Even in the last ten years, he’d noticed a subtle shift in the tide. People didn’t just automatically assume that the church had their best interests in mind now. They were suspicious. They felt maligned. The church had so much wealth amassed, and the surrounding area was so relatively poor. It frustrated Mac privately. There was no way to explain that to the cop, who - despite the scent of coffee still on his breath - seemed tired, with a droop in his shoulders suggesting he wasn’t really hearing anything Mac was saying. Mac sighed. ‘Nobody specific,’ he eventually answered. The cop - to Mac’s surprise - seemed to understand. He nodded.

‘We’ll do what we can.’ He stood to leave and Mac followed suit, holding out a hand for him to shake. The detective’s grip was strong and assured. His thumb lingered against Mac’s as their hands parted and Mac tried so hard not to think about the warm feeling of the man’s palm against his own. Detective Anderson smiled at him before turning to leave. Mac didn’t trust the smile; it was knowing in all the wrong ways.

The burning need to go to confession thrummed in Mac’s body until the evening. Of course, he attended confession almost every day. But there were some sins he couldn’t discuss here - the anonymity of the confession booth was a frail thing when he and his colleagues knew each other this well. And so every week, he went further afield to vocalise the sins he really lived in fear of. The sins he thought of whenever he looked at the sky, towards the Father.

There were a few churches on the other side of Philly that Mac frequented. He would sneak in, hood up until he crossed the threshold of the church, and make a beeline for the confession booth. He tried to change up where he went and how often, so nobody could connect the dots. Despite there being more than a hundred churches in Philadelphia, they were all still part of the same archdiocese, and he didn’t need anyone recognising his voice and putting a sin to a name.

There was one he’d been becoming more and more drawn to, though. It was easy to get to despite being on a different side of the city, and the perfect mix of busy enough that he was unlikely to be remembered, but not so much that he was likely to be overheard. He hated to admit it, but the priest that seemed to hear confession there the most often drew him there too. He was smooth-voiced and kind. Where Mac could sometimes sense the disgust in the voices of the priests who heard his confession - not malicious, necessarily, just the result of their distrust of what they didn’t understand and didn’t want to - but this man never had anything but compassion for Mac, despite his sin, his recidivism. In a strange way, Mac felt closer to him than any of his colleagues, his friends. In the narrow confession booth, Mac was truthful - baring his bones, his beating heart. And the man held that truth so delicately. Even when Mac could sense his disappointment through the grate, the priest was never _angry_.

So when Mac stepped into his church it was not with trepidation, but relief. He felt understood in this space - perhaps the only space he ever would be. As he’d predicted, it was drawing to the end of when confession was scheduled for that day, and there was nobody waiting outside the confessional. Glancing around to make sure nobody would recognise him - the church was almost completely empty - he kept his head down and walked to the confessional. His footsteps rang out uncomfortably loudly on the stone floor and he felt heat rise in his face at the thought of attracting any attention. Despite his intentions, it felt sordid. Every step he took towards temporary absolution felt like a step further into deceit.

Through the grate, he saw the shadow of the priest looking up as he opened the door and stepped in. Mac crossed himself hurriedly.

‘Hello, my child.’ And there it was - that voice, angelic, loosening the tight knot in Mac’s stomach.

F-forgive me, father, for I have sinned.’

**Author's Note:**

> I don't super get how the catholic church works. I've been reading a lot of wikihows. I do get how internalised homophobia works tho. I'm on twitter @gender_goblin if u wanna challenge me to a duel


End file.
